Chicken Winchell
The waitress who is badly nourished or just naturally unhealthy has a theory about why the daughter never returned.
The daughter did return, for only a little stay, to ask which chicken dish her father had ordered for her.
The mother experiences her losses with positivity. She even frames the notion of her own charm as she heads into her normal amount of it.
Yes, she confides in the waitress, both her daughter and her husband have disappeared, and yes, her daughter is a darling, but hasn’t she made it clear to her there isn’t a boy her age to admire her within a hundred miles?
The mother roams home, wearing the fine check jacket and her black calf heels, alone.
She sees the pair of doors of a little shop where they are selling magic and all kinds of things. Inside, the clerks with elf-locks are dressed for the cold. There is a bakery the mother thinks would be nice and warm. It is okay, and after that, she goes to the gift shop, and gets those sole inserts.
Normally, the family’s frugal. They eat at home, buy groceries.
The mother’s legs are trembling, yet she has a good conscience and a long life.
She used to weigh one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Now she weighs one hundred and fourteen pounds, but it’s been very hectic.
As she sleeps, the telephone rings, wakes her, and she thirsts for a glass of water. She finds that one thing neatly, reasonably, takes her away from yet another.